


helpless

by VesperNexus



Series: that boy is mine [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda, Hamilton - Miranda (Broadway Cast) RPF
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Hurt Alexander Hamilton, Idiots in Love, M/M, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:33:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23295553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VesperNexus/pseuds/VesperNexus
Summary: His boy breaks through the clearing on horseback, his stride so quick and determined the joy barely has time to settle in his chest. Relief washes over Washington, sudden and paralysing. Hamilton clears half the yard, he’s almost here and Washington’s boot is heavy against his horse, ready to pull her quick. A smile splits his face.  His boy is okay, he’s okay and he’s rushing at Washington full speed and Christ he’s –He’s shot off.Washington’s heart stops.Or, Hamilton gets shot, remains insufferable, and confessions are made.
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton & George Washington, Alexander Hamilton/George Washington
Series: that boy is mine [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1677175
Comments: 10
Kudos: 134





	helpless

**Author's Note:**

> this was born at 12am while i was conducting researching my undergrad thesis. totally appropriate.  
> please excuse/ call out any inconsistencies and grammar mistakes, this accidentally happened after lots of wine

The clearing is so still he barely dares to breath. Dawn light fractures against the grass, trees bellowing gently in the summer wind. It does nothing for the simmering itch under his skin, the fear gnawing at his insides, the nausea boiling in the pit of his belly. He’d close his eyes if he could. _Come on, Alexander._

Washington’s nerves are affray.

Sweat beads around his hairline, the _thump-thump-thump_ of his heart against his rib cage so vicious his chest aches. His breaths are hard and uneven, his knuckles bone white around the reins. _Come on, Alexander._ It’s almost a silly little prayer but the words are too thick and bitter to roll off his tongue.

Betty is restless beneath him, hooves digging hard into the grass. “Shh girl, shh…” he barely hears his own voice, barely realises he’s said anything. “He’ll be here soon, girl.” _Come on, Alexander. Come on, come on, come on and -_

_Thank providence._

In a single galvanising moment, the stillness is fractured. His boy breaks through the clearing on horseback, his stride so quick and determined the joy barely has time to settle in his chest. Relief washes over Washington, sudden and paralysing. Hamilton clears half the yard, he’s almost here and Washington’s boot is heavy against his horse, ready to pull her quick. A smile splits his face. His boy is okay, he’s okay and he’s rushing at Washington full speed and Christ he’s –

He’s shot off.

Washington’s heart _stops._

Hamilton’s body jerks as he’s flung from his saddle. Even from here Washington sees the way his eyes widen, the way his mouth parts in a strangled choke and _Christ_ he swears it’s audible from here. The twist, the gasp, the hurt that claws from Hamilton’s throat to the roll of his eyes into his head. Maybe Washington shouts, maybe he screams, maybe he –

Buttercup crumbles after Hamilton, almost an afterthought. He almost hears the boy’s voice in his ear, _ride your Excellency, away-away-away-_ bordering on insubordinate, angry and insolent and giving advice Washington has no intention of following.

He doesn’t register the way he yanks Betty into motion, riding back towards the redcoats, back towards his boy. He’s there in a second, danger be _damned_ , he’s there with a strong arm under Hamilton’s body, hauling him up onto Betty. Washington’s hands come away red and the bile is at the base of his throat. Hamilton blinks sluggishly at him, back pushed hard against Washington’s chest, almost tipping off the horse.

Washington holds him close, secures his elbows against his boy’s waist and _rides_.

*

He rides long and hard until dawn has broken and the sun has trudged tiredly across the sky. He rides with voice steady and firm in Hamilton’s ear, rides until he knows they’ve lost the redcoats between the red stained flowers and dry hollow bark trees. At one point Hamilton falls asleep, head lolling backwards against Washington’s shoulder, jolting him with a fright that makes his heart stutter.

It’s a slow and careful process, peeling himself off horseback. The manoeuvre to carry his boy down is painstaking as he does his best not to jostle him or his shoulder, strains the muscles in his forearms until his joints ache.

“Hamilton.” He rests the boy against the stump of a tree, fingers tight around his wrist. His aide doesn’t respond, but Washington still takes a long moment to relish the gentle thumping pulse.

“Mmm,” dark confused eyes blink up at him. He’s so young. Hamilton is so young. _Washington,_ he tethers himself, grounds himself to Hamilton’s beating pulse.

Ever so carefully, he peels back the uniform to expose a thin trembling shoulder. He can’t feel an exit wound. The bullet is still lodged somewhere inside Hamilton’s body, probably fractured in all the finer bird bones under his hands.

“Sir…” Washington presses a water-skin to the boy’s lips. Hamilton frowns, coherence finally grasping him gently by the hands. He wraps the fingers of his good arm around the skin and drinks slowly. Washington only lets go when his grip steadies, savouring the brush of their fingertips even though he shouldn’t. He washes the wound in silence, tries not to let trepidation weigh down his back too aggressively.

“Is it bad?” Hamilton’s eyes are fixated on Washington’s gentle work. He shakes his head with all the certainty he can muster, even though he feels like the ground might give from under him.

“Bullet’s still inside, but there’s no exit wound. You won’t bleed out before we get to camp.” He tries to keep his voice sterile. Clinical, professional, unattached and _unafraid._ The bullet hole is clean, and the bleeding has already slowed to a sluggish trickle. It still threatens to turn his stomach, but when he glances up Hamilton’s smiling. What an impossible boy. _My impossible boy._

He clears his throat, bites his bottom lip red. The same thing he does when he readies for battle, when there’s a particularly outlandish suggestion on his tongue. “Sir-”

“I’m not leaving you.” Because of course that’s what Hamilton will suggest. But of course. Washington tries not to sound too exasperated.

“Sir-”

“This is not a discussion.”

“Sir if you ride alone you could-”

“Hamilton.”

“-reach camp in half the time, your Excellency think practically-”

“ _Alexander._ ”

That’s enough to quiet the boy. For a moment.

“Sir-”

“I said this was _not a discussion._ Would you like me to try it in French, as well?”

Washington’s French is passable at best, and Hamilton’s long-suffering sigh is insubordinate at best. But Washington thinks he can let it go. It’s a challenge not to roll his eyes.

He starts cocooning the wound with fresh bandages from his satchel, careful not to let his fingers linger too long on the soft planes of skin and protruding bones. Careful not to think about the gentle tremble of strain and exhaustion. Careful not to let his eyes linger on the way Hamilton’s collarbone shifts with every tender touch, the delicate press of veins against a long neck, the warm inviting– _Washington. Washington._

Hamilton is silent, oddly so. A subtle glance up and he finds the boy looking at him, dark intelligent eyes focused on his face. There’s something in that look, something like a sadness, a longing, an ache that translates to the curl of thin fingers around Washington’s clothed elbow. He reminds himself there’s a bullet in Hamilton’s shoulder, and he is likely delirious with pain.

_Wishful thinking._

Washington is not one to squirm openly, not even under Hamilton’s gaze or Hamilton’s touch. The boy probably did not realise he was doing it.

“We need to ride north a few more hours before I remove the bullet. It’s too dangerous to attempt anything here.”

Hamilton nods, head resting against the bark. He pulls his eyes from Washington and looks over his shoulder instead, but his hand is still a warm, welcome presence on Washington’s arm.

“Sir…” A pause. Washington lets go, shuffles to his feet. Even though he’s had plenty of practice schooling his features, even though his plain expression is impenetrable, he knows it’s not a good idea to spend so much time so close to the boy. Especially when he’s hurting like this, and all Washington desires is to bundle him up and press him to his chest.

“Rest. I’ll wake you in an hour.” He turns to the horse, petting the gentle beast with a firm hand. She nuzzles into his touch.

Hamilton doesn’t argue, and Washington thanks Providence.

*

The boy slips into the arms of sleep quickly, belaying his exhaustion.

At one point, Washington peels off his coat and tucks it around his aide. He watches from a distance, hand absentmindedly holding an apple to Betty as Hamilton burrows deeply into the coat, subconsciously draws it around him like a cocoon even in his sleep. He listens to the content sigh and savours it. Only a bullet can get Hamilton to rest, it seems.

It takes no more than a good half hour before Hamilton’s expression twists and the veins in his hands pop from the strain. The lines of his forehead scrunch upward, mouth twisted downward as he struggles against an invisible enemy.

The general has seen this often enough. He kneels beside the boy with a gentle hand against his forehead. He touches only as long as it is necessary to rouse the boy from the grasp of his nightmare. Only as long as necessary.

“Hamilton. Alexander. _Alex._ ” The boy blinks once, twice, releases a shuddering breath.

“Buttercup.” Washington leans back on his hunches. “Did she…” Hamilton looks away, his gaze forlorn.

“She went quickly,” he lies easily enough. But he should know better, because the boy narrows his eyes at him. Of course he’d see through it. If anyone could. “There’s nothing to be done now.”

“I suppose not.” Dejected, the words hang heavy, filling the chasm between them. Wordlessly he helps Hamilton to his feet, legs as feeble as a newborn lamb’s. Washington ignores the way Hamilton feels against him, the perfect fit of his hand along the boy’s waist, the perfect curl of his fingers along a protruding hip. His queue had come loose at some point, and soft locks tangle along the line of Washington’s jaw. Hamilton’s breath is easy on the curve of his neck.

It’s a struggle getting the boy on a horse, for more reasons than one.

*

“This is going to hurt.”

Hamilton snorts. “Can’t tell you the amount of times I’ve heard that, Sir…”

Washington rolls his eyes, readjusting the coat bundled under Hamilton’s head. They can’t afford to wait until they reach camp. The boy’s gotten so pale it’s only a matter of time before the injury catches up to him, before Adrenalin gives way to fever. Washington knows there’s nothing to be done for it, but the tight fist around his heart refuses to unclench.

“Thank you, Sir.” Washington knows the boy keeps his mouth moving to distract himself. If he were a stronger man, if he had better words than silly pointless reassurances, he’d speak too. “For coming back for me.”

Washington waits for the proverbial shoe to drop.

“Even though it’s undoubtedly one of the most egregiously selfish things you could have done.”

He cleans his belt thoroughly and lifts it for the boy’s inspection. “Hamilton…” A warning, subtle as it is.

“You could have died, Sir. The whole fucking war, everything rests on your shoulders.” _Oh, he’s angry._ At least it will keep the blood flowing. “And you almost threw it away for _what_?”

“You.” He says simply enough, and that’s that. It’s the closest he has come to a confession, the closest he will ever come. But he almost lost his boy and he regrets nothing.

Hamilton looks exasperated more than anything, before he opens his mouth and takes the leather between his teeth.

It will muffle the worst of his pain. Selfishly it is not for fear of bandits or redcoats, but because Hamilton’s scream is not a sound he is likely to ever forget.

“Ready?”

Hamilton rolls his eyes.

*

His hands are still shaking long after he digs the bullet from Hamilton’s shoulder.

*

It does not take long for the fever to set in. This may be the most trying hour of Washington’s life.

He has commanded hundreds, thousands, of men through wars and battles and massacres. He has done the impossible, he has triumphed, he has faced a valley of enemies armed with guns and bayonets and a valley of congressman armed with politics, and in the end it is one feverish foolish young man who will bring him to his knees.

“Alex.” They are no more than two hours from camp. No more than _two_ hours. Alex is loose and hot against him, body tight and feverish, coiled into Washington’s side. His shivers are so strong it shakes even the general’s body. “Alex.”

“Sir. I…”

“Alex, if you’re about to do something ridiculous like give your own eulogy…”

Hamilton shakes with laughter this time, and it’s enough to pull the breath from his body. Washington pulls him closer. He has imagined so many variations of this moment, so many fantasies and delights that might lead the boy into the tight secure circle of his arms. None of them like this. “Hang on until first light. We’re close Son.”

“Sir.” Hamilton looks up at him from beneath those impossibly long lashes. His eyes are dark with _longing_ , and it’s impossible to ignore this time. “Sir, I – I have no right to ask this of you.”

Washington can’t breathe when Hamilton looks at him like this. “Alexander…”

“Sir, _please._ ”

He presses a kiss to Hamilton’s forehead. He shouldn’t. He has no right. But he does, and the boy _melts_ into him, he melts and presses a shaky watery smile into Washington’s neck. He kisses his forehead and his nose and his cheeks, he holds his chin and looks him hard in the eyes –

“ _George._ ”

His presses his lips to Hamilton’s – _Alexander’s_ – and its chaste and sweet and perfect. Hamilton laughs into his mouth and Washington can taste his smile and the moment is so beautiful if would have brought to his knees had he been standing. He wonders how long he has been so helpless.

Hamilton is gripped by a fit of unconsciousness soon enough. Washington rides harder than he has in his life.

*

There are only so many times he can thank Providence.

*

“Sweet Christ Laurens I’m _not an invalid –_ I can feed myself!”

“Hamilton you are not an _invalid_ you are a _toddler._ Now kindly open-”

A stream of blasphemous curses voice, angry and annoyed and so sweetly alive. Washington straightens the smile from his face before he steps over the threshold, pushing the door open gently. Laurens is leant over Hamilton, spoon full of porridge pressing against stubbornly closed lips. Washington’s chest feels light.

“Laurens, Hamilton.”

“Your Excellency,” they respond in unison. The spoon clangs into the bowl by the crate serving as a bedside table. Laurens stands up, posture perfect as always.

“I’ll take over from here, Colonel. Please rest.” The young man nods, a quick supportive hand heavy against his friend’s shoulder for a long moment. He doesn’t question Washington’s presence at the foot of an aide’s bed. He’s far too clever for that.

As soon as the door closes with a resounding click, Washington occupies the empty seat.

Colour has come back to Hamilton’s cheeks, and there’s a softer quieter smile than anything he’s ever seen on his boy’s face. Washington doesn’t hesitate to take his hand, threading their fingers together.

It’s enough.


End file.
